


You'll Learn to Hate It

by Fuseaction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pizza Shop, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuseaction/pseuds/Fuseaction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take Your Fandom to Work Day: Pizza Shop Teen!AU Mormor</p>
<p>In which Jim is a pouty new-hire, and Sebastian is a surly and muscular dough boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'll Learn to Hate It

Distaste. That’s all that can be felt as I enter into the establishment for the 4th time since I submitted my application. The place is practically coated in flour and pepperoni grease. The pathetic, ill-fitting apron clings with static to my khaki trousers and black crew neck (was there ever a more hideous style of shirt?), the hem of which is tucked in, ballooning a bit above the waistband like a deflated second skin from a much larger boy. The logo in the upper right of the shirt scratches my arm as I adjust the cap, the front of that also emblazoned with the hideously off-color triangle of pizza.

The manager (the busy, flighty idiot) greets me from behind the counter, escorting me past it with an hand on my shoulder, as though afraid I’ll wander off and burn the place down (tempting, yes?), showing me the station assignment chart, the names written in a frankly illegible scrawl.

“And that’s you, Jimmy,” the idiot says with a sunny tone as he points with a dirty finger to a smudgy name that looks like someone was having a seizure while writing it, mistaking my grimace for a smile of recognition. “Y’see? Already part of the crew!”

I don’t bother to correct him about calling me ‘Jimmy’. He’s not quite the type to grasp veiled threats of ruination, but then again, most people are just that imbecilic. I’d have to scratch it into the insides of his eyelids, and quite honestly, it’s not worth the effort of strapping him down and dirtying my scalpels or needles. I very nearly change my mind in that respect when he claps my back in a much too familiar way and steers me further into the bowels of the shop, giving me my first glimpse of my coworkers.

 

“Everyone, this is Jimmy. Welcome him to the crew and continue on. We’ve got quality product to make!” Needless to say, I cringe internally at the thought of having to play nice with the blank-faced morons that turn to look at me like the simple minds that they are. The idiot ambles off towards the front to take care of some wayward customer unfortunate enough to get reeled in by the garish lettering and decals on the face of the building, leaving me standing there while they gaze on like gormless nitwits.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights and the way one of them is chewing their gum is louder than the so-called ‘welcome to the crew’ that I’m supposed to receive, though it’s preferable to interaction. Finally, a girl with brown hair towards the front takes in a dramatic sigh before introducing herself.

“Mindy. That there is Kelly,” she says blandly, pointing to a rather manatee-like female with a ball of dough in her hands. “Bradley, Carson, Oliver.” A tall boy, a short boy, and then a twitchy one all give brutish upward head jerks as their names are mentioned. ” ‘Nd Sebastian and Brittany are out back, taking out the rubbish.” ‘Mindy’ jerks her head at ‘Bradley’, who makes a face and motions for me to follow him.

“Right, well. Pie-line. You put the toppings onto the pizzas. See that?” He points to a chart on the wall, which is also stained the color of filth, blotches making some words distorted and blurred. “That chart’s your new best friend. En’t no one gonna help you out after today, yeah?”

I don’t bother to respond verbally. Hopefully the look of utter contempt on my face can get the message across, though ‘Bradley’ doesn’t seem to notice, giving a careless flick of his index finger while walking towards a steel countertop (also dirty). “Dough prep. Seb and Kelly’s station, but the rest of us switch round ‘tween the other jobs.” Based on the state of ‘Kelly’, it’s safe to assume that ‘Sebastian’ will also be of the marine mammal scale.

I zone out. The only way to stay sane it seems, when faced with the utter lackluster of such a place. Yes, I go through the motions and repeat back instructions, but no. I’m not there. The tasks are disgustingly easy enough that I let myself run on autopilot, my brain making use of the free time to work on the composition I’d started writing the day before. I’ll be sure to play it on the day I plan on lighting the building on fire and sealing in its staff.

Someone nudges my elbow, bringing me back to focus. It’s a taller boy. This must be ‘Sebastian’. He’s not at all a marine mammal as I’d predicted. “I’m to show you the walk-in,” he says, looking at least marginally more alert than the rest of them, motioning to the large refrigerator where all the dough, sauce, and ingredients are stored. I nod and follow him. 

He pulls open the door, entering and holding aside the plastic strips of sheeting that cover the doorway so that I can pass through. Polite? Out of place for the custom of this place, it seems. I shiver a bit as the door closes behind us, the air frigid, admittedly a bit startled to find no handle on the inside. ‘Sebastian’ appears to notice this, pushing against it with his forearm to demonstrate that it can be opened with a bit of pressure. It reseals itself, the yellowish bulb inside illuminating the stacked shelves of ingredients on once side, the other reserved for the sickly pale dough balls on trays in racks.

“So at the moment, we’re pulling trays from here, since these’ve had time to set and swell,” he explains, pulling a tray from towards the top and tilting it so that I can observe it, the dough looking a bit more edible (barely), but rather puffy in a foul sort of way. He hooks his fingers over the lip of a tray on the far side. “Made these this morning. Can’t be used until tomorrow, or right before closing tonight. Need to have about 8-12 hours before they’re ready, but they need to be used within 24 hours.”

He brushes past me, the walk area narrow enough that I can feel his body heat, only making me more eager to get out of this chilled coffin. He lifts a large box from the floor, quite heavy based on the sound it makes upon setting it down on top of another box of the same kind, pulling it open, the cardboard looking a bit damp as he presses the flaps back to reveal a plastic bag full of off-white powder. “This is the dough mix. One box can make about..” He pauses to think, making a slight frown. Alright, so the dough boy is attractive. I catch myself staring a bit as this realization hits me, switching my attention to an absurdly obese drawing of a chef on the side of a box of pepperoni. “About 40 dough balls.”

Blonde. Blue eyes? Can’t quite tell, since the light is so dingy, but I’m willing to bet they’re blue. Tall. Strong, definitely. Nice nose. I catalogue these things as he explains the placement of the other items necessary to make pizza. And once more, he surprises me. “Why’d you decide to work _here_  of all places, if you don’t mind my asking?” He’s sitting with arms crossed on a closed box of dough mix, looking skeptical. I nearly stutter. God, how idiotic that could’ve looked.

“It’s part of my therapy. Supposedly I’m antisocial. I just say people are stupid and not worth my time.” I should shut up, shouldn’t I? And now I’ve surprised myself. Blown my own cover, so to say. Though who would honestly believe that I’d _wanted_  to work here?

The boy gives a wide grin at that. _Not_  what I expected. He presses the tip of his tongue against the left corner of his lips as he laughs, something that wouldn’t be appealing when done by anyone else, but is unbelievably so now. “Well, you’ve come to the right place if you wanted ‘stupid and not worth your time’. Been here a year, and I’m surprised I haven’t quit, or worse…” He shrugs, but extends a hand outwards to me. “I’m Sebastian.”

“Jim,” I say, teeth chattering a bit from both cold and nerves as I shake his hand. I give an inward sigh of relief when I let go of his hand at the right moment instead of holding onto its warmth. He’s still smiling, looking just on the verge of chuckling again.

“Not Jimmy, then?” When I scowl deeply, his lips purse to prevent a laugh. “Right, I’ll keep that in mind. Jim.”

And this is the point when I decide that he’s Sebastian instead of ‘Sebastian’. His existence is now valid to me. He should be flattered, though he’ll never really know. Sebastian gets up, pressing on the door and opening it, holding aside the plastic again as I exit the walk-in, somehow missing the cold isolation of the refrigeration room now that I’m faced with the boring people. I almost let my eyes close when Sebastian leans in, feeling his breath on my ear and neck as he whispers. “Welcome to the crew. Enjoy your stay in hell, Jim.”

I suppress a laugh, giving him a smile which he returns over his shoulder as he walks over to the dough station to help ‘Kelly’ fill the dough ball quota. No matter how unbearable this cesspit is, there’s no way I can leave now. At least not without a certain dough boy in tow.


End file.
